Harry's Pack
by WizardsGirl
Summary: Nonmagic. AU. Spoilers for Wolfman. Have you never wondered why Lilly and Petunia look so different? Maybe it's because they have different fathers. When Harry finds out... A/N: Trying this out. PLEASE ENJOY R&R VIOLENCE  Temp. Hiatus
1. The Letter

**A/N:** Hey my devoted readers! We're taking a step in a new direction. I worked on this fic during the time I'd hit a snag on my Interferes series. I don't own Harry or Wolfman 2010, but I loved both. If you haven't seen Wolfman, then this'll explain quite a bit, so I say there are Spoilers, in a chapter or so.

And if you HAVE seen the movie, then you'll notice the differences immediately.

I hope y'all enjoy it!  
R&R

**1**

**The Letter**

Sixteen-year-old Harry Potter sat staring out the compartment window, glad his obese and cruel relatives, the Dursley's, had decided that he didn't deserve the first class seats they'd been given. Instead, he was riding in the poorer section of the train. He didn't mind. He actually preferred this section. People were nicer.

Silently, he glanced down at the crumbled and slightly smudged letter in his hands. He'd read it at least a million times since it had arrived four days ago. It had been sent to his mother, Lilly, but since she was dead; it had been forwarded to him. His relatives hadn't been home when the mail had come, so he'd already read it by the time they arrived. Smiling sadly, he read it again.

_**Dearest Lilly,**_

_**It grieves me to write to you with such sorrowful news, my beloved daughter, after so many years without saying a word to one another, but I fear I must. Your youngest brother, Ben, has died. Lawrence is here, as is Ben's wife. The funeral is set for the twentieth. I have taken the liberty of inviting your sister, though she is no relative of Ben's, nor mine. **_

_**Oh, Lilly. I miss you so, and though it makes me grimace with self-disgust, if my youngest son's death will bring you home to Blackmoor, then I am most sorry to say that I am glad. When your mother, Rose, passed away, I was stricken, as I was when my wife later in life, Lawrence and Ben's mother, killed herself. Now I have only you and Lawrence left, and I fear that I shall loose you as well.**_

_**Please, come home, if only for the funeral. It would do this old mans heart some good.**_

_**With love,**_

_**Your Father, **_

_**Sir John Talbot **_

Harry closed his eyes and sighed, wondering what his grandfather was like. He'd asked Aunt Petunia about it, angry that he had never been told that he had other relatives. She'd sniffed and sneered.

"He's not _my_ father," She'd said primly. "He's _Lilly's_ father. He has no reason to know about my Diddums. Still," she'd murmured, greed gleaming in her blue eyes. "He _is _a rich Lord, or some such nonsense. And, once he learns that Lilly's dead, he might just off himself, and leave everything to us!" Vernon was so eager about that prospect that he hadn't even bothered trying to shove Harry off on someone, and had let him come.

The old woman sitting beside him began to cough, a horrible, wet sound, pulling Harry from his thoughts. She kept coughing, her bright shawls lending her frail body some form that it didn't have. Harry looked at her, concerned. He quickly dug his small flask of water out of his bag and unscrewed the lid. Reaching out, he gently touched her shoulder and, gasping and trembling for breath, she turned her wide, dark brown eyes on his. He gently offered her the bottle, and held it to her lips when her hands shook too much.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly after she'd sipped the water; she nodded and offered him a smile, showing yellowed, oddly sharp teeth as well as laughter lines around her eyes.

"Thank ye, child," she whispered, and Harry was enthralled by the Romanian accent she possessed. Harry smiled at her, shyly.

"No problem at all, ma'am," he told her, setting the flask on the seat between them. "If you need more, it's there for you and you're welcome to drink as much as you like." He smiled at her as he said it, worrying slightly when she stared at the flask. Nervous, he glanced down at it. It was a ratty old leather wrapped bottle, usually worn by its fraying leather throng. Harry had gotten bored one day and carved a picture of a wolf howling on the center, with the cycles of the moon surrounding it in a circle, the full moon at the top. He thought he'd done a rather magnificent job, but knew that, even with the work he'd done on it, the old flask still looked horribly ratty.

The old Gypsy woman, as Harry knew her to be, lifted her dark eyes and examined Harry's face and attire. Harry fidgeted, ducking his head so that his black bangs hid his eyes. He hadn't worn glasses for three years, his eyes having somehow fixed themselves. He thought, though, with his black hair a little ways past his ears and slightly curly, with his thin, heart-shaped face, petite body, and large green eyes… Well, it was safe to say that he was often mistaken as a girl. His clothes did nothing to help, hanging off of him and exposing thin, elegant shoulders and moonbeam pale skin. He also knew that what they covered counted, though, because the bruises and scars were as vivid as the nose on his face.

"Ma'am?" He finally asked, nervous; she blinked then slowly smiled, eyes twinkling. She lifted the flask carefully in both hands; her bony fingers holding many beautiful rings. Silently, she turned it over and over again, then looked up and met his eyes.

"Young one," She whispered. "If this old woman could ask a favor of ye, it would be gratefully remembered and rewarded." Harry blinked and stared into those dark eyes, mesmerized.

"What do you ask of me?" He whispered softly; she lifted the flask.

"May I perhaps have this, little one?" Harry blinked, startled. That was all? Feeling a bit dazed and confused, he nodded. She beamed at him and patted his cheek. "Many thanks, child." she said, and pulled off one of the rings on her left hand. It was thin and old, and looked like it was made of steel. There was a small, green rock on top and, smiling, the old woman took his right hand and slipped the surprisingly small ring onto his long, narrow index finger. She held his hand and covered it with her own.

"I can't take your ring," he said, shocked and uncertain. She smiled and patted his hand.

"A gift given in kindness receives a gift in kind." She stated, then slipped a hand under one of her shawls and pulled a thin gold chain off over her head, pulling it away. A flat metal disk with a snarling wolf on one-side, and the image of a sorrowful man on the other, hung from it. She took both of her hands, and slipped it over his head, shushing him when he tried to protest. "The ring was for the flask, a small gift to give. Yer concern and help, though, and yer offering of water, deserves a reward far greater. 'Dis talisman has been with me for many years, gifted to me once as I gift it to ye. May it help ye on the path yer fate takes ye down, young one." She murmured something in Romanian and kissed his forehead before tucking the flask into a pocket, picking up her walking stick, and leaving the stunned teen alone in the compartment.

Harry stared at the door long after it had been closed, then plucked the talisman up from its resting place on his sternum and peered at it. Taking the chain on either side in his hands, he carefully spun it, watching in fascination as it spun, faster and faster. Watching as the sad man morphed into the snarling wolf and back again. Stopping, he let it drop on his chest again. The wolf's head stared out at the world from his chest, and the sad man it would become hid his face in Harry's baggy clothes. Harry stared out the window once more, and gently touched the ring on his index finger, rubbing it absently as the town of Blackmoor came into view in the distance.

It was a strange ride. A strange ride, indeed.

**A/N:** How was it? PLEASE REVIEW!


	2. Sir John

**A/N:** Hey, I'm gonna keep posting, as I've got this fic mostly finished, so it don't matter how many reviews I get, though I DO like to read them…

Oh, and this is NONMAGIC and AU.

For those "Dunderheads" who don't get it, ya know?

R&R!

**2**

**Sir John**

Harry grimaced as Dudley shoved him, making him almost fall into a rather deep-looking puddle. His uncle and aunt sneered at him and told him to hurry up with the luggage, and Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something that would surely earn him a sound beating later. He silently heaved the large suitcases onto the back of the cart they'd rented, and saw that he'd have to sit on the small bench there, by himself in the rain, or get smashed into the side of the carriage by his cousin's baby-whale bulk.

Choosing the rain over the potential bruises, Harry hopped onto the bench, standing, and smacked the side twice, signaling the driver. Immediately, the four black horses set of at a fast pace, impressing Harry with their seemingly easy way of pulling his grotesquely fat uncle and cousin, as well as the luggage in the back. The driver glanced back and smiled at him, signaling for him to come forward, a challenge sparking in the older mans eyes. Harry smiled at him, clung to the edge of the carriage, and pulled himself up onto the roof, sliding forward and swinging onto the bench beside the man.

"I'd have sat outside too, lad," the driver told him, baring rotting teeth in a grin; Harry grinned back.

"My name's Harry," he said; the man nodded, snapping the reins to keep the horses attention.

"The name's Elwrick. Joseph Elwrick, but the last name's preferred." Harry nodded and looked around at the town they were passing through. It was horribly dark and dreary, and Harry felt that it would have looked that way if the sun were shining clearly. As it was, the dark clouds, rain, and lightening all blended perfectly with the towns' corpse-like appeal.

"Would you like to steer for a bit, lad?" Elwrick asked; Harry looked at the offered reins, wide-eyed. "They don't bite, lad! Just keep a firm grip and I'll help you get where yer goin'." Harry tentatively took the reins, wrapping them around the palms of his hands, like he'd seen the older man do. "Tha's it, lad. Now, give them a flick," Elwrick said, flicking his wrists to show Harry how. Taking a deep breath, Harry focused on the reins leading to the four gorgeous horses. Tightening his hands, he flicked his wrists firmly; the crack was sharp and firm, and the horses seemed to move closer together and go faster.

"Like that?" Harry asked; Elwrick nodded, smiling. Harry never took his eyes off the horses, scooting a bit so he could brace his feet firmly. The rest of the ride, Harry drove, while Elwrick explained how the carriage worked and showed him how to steer. After that, the older man just told him when to turn, slow down, and speed up. As they approached a large estate, Elwrick patted his shoulder, the signal to slow down. Harry tugged the reins, applying gentle pressure, and the horses slowed to an even trot. Smiling as the carriage pulled up in front of the house, Harry clucked his tongue and pulled firmly on the reins. The horses obediently stopped, and Elwrick whooped, laughing and ruffling Harry's hair.

"You're a natural, lad!" Harry grinned up at him, soaked through with water. His clothes clung slightly, making him look like a wrapped skeleton. Hopping carefully down, the teen hurried to the back of the carriage and began pulling the luggage off the bench, grunting at the weight of the four briefcases. The Dursley's lumbered out of the carriage, complaining and snapping at Elwrick, who scowled and glowered and stubbornly demanded his pay up front. Growling under his breath and purple in the face with outrage, Vernon shoved the required money into the dirty mans hands and stomped towards the doors. Petunia sniffed and Dudley whined, both following Vernon. Harry rolled his eyes at Elwrick when the older man came to help him with the baggage.

"You're lucky," Harry told him sourly. "They're ten times worse in the mornings." Elwrick shuddered.

"I pity you, lad," he muttered, grunting as he took up one bag. Harry grabbed another, and dragged a third behind him, used to the heavy labor. They set them at the bottom of the stairs and Harry grabbed the last one before saying goodbye. Elwrick hesitated though, glancing back up at the house. Seemingly deciding something, he bent down and set his hands on the short teens shoulders.

"Harry," he said, utterly serious. "If ever ya need a place ta stay, or maybe ta hide, go ta the Inn in town, and ask for me, alright? I have friends who can help ya." Again, he looked up at the house; its doors were wide open since the Dursley's entered. "This place is a place of secrets and sadness. Cursed," he murmured. He stood and straightened his clothes. "I jus' don' want a nice lad like you falling to it's evil ways, alright?" Harry nodded slowly, unconsciously lifting a hand to fiddle with his talisman.

"Thank you, Elwrick," he murmured softly; the man smiled and ruffled his hair, before climbing up in his carriage and driving away. Harry waved after him, but he didn't look back. Sighing, the sixteen-year-old dragged the last briefcase to the others and trotted up the stone steps. Looking around, he admired the large stone structures and the huge stuffed animals. The Dursley's were shouting and bellowing around farther in so, with a sigh, he tuned that way…

And froze as a dog that was as tall as his chest stood in his way, black fur a little mottled with browns and a splotch of gray here and there. The dog, a hound of some sort, growled at him; Harry took a deep breath and spread his hands away from his body, palms facing away. The dog stepped towards him, lips pulling back, sniffing.

"Easy," Harry murmured, taking a careful step forward. The wind rushed in at his back from the open doors, blowing his scent toward the dog. "My name's Harry, what's yours?" He asked, feeling a little silly, but he knew it wasn't his words that mattered, but the sound of his voice, quiet and soothing. The dog stopped growling and tilted his head, seemingly confused. Harry carefully held out his left hand, so if the dog bit he'd still have his right. The dog sniffed it warily, then whined and licked it. The teen smiled and moved his right hand slowly forward, and was relieved when the dogs' tail wagged and he ducked his head, bumping the hand. Harry carefully scratched him behind the ears, petting him.

"You're a good dog," Harry told him gently. "Such a good dog, boy, growling at strangers. Have you met my relatives, boy? They probably smell horrible and there are two really fat ones, and one who looks like a stick." The dog sneezed; Harry laughed softly. "I know, I hate saying their related to me, but you can't pick your relatives, can you, boy?" He whined at Harry, who leaned down and kissed his head, before starting once more towards his family. The dog stepped in by his side, staying there, so Harry idly set his hand on the large dogs neck, humming softly under his breath.

A new voice met the Dursley's, as Harry got closer. Turning into a room, he paused. His uncle was purple faced and glaring at three men. One was obviously foreign and old, with lots of gray in his long, black beard, and kind eyes, though he was obviously trying not to glare back at Vernon. Another man was a good six feet tall, with a distinguished tux on. He looked surly and was scowling at the Dursley's, his dark eyes nearly as black as his hair. The last man was shorter by a few inches then the young man, with white hair and beard, and, by their noses, jaw line, and foreheads, Harry guessed that he was the younger man's father.

"You, Petunia," the old man growled out. "Are only here because of Lilly. Otherwise I would not suffer you nor your rather," he dragged his cold blue eyes over Dudley and Vernon, sneering slightly, "_distinguished_ family. You are only staying until the funeral, and in town. When Lilly get's here, you might be moved here, but not until then." Harry spoke quickly, before his aunt could say the horrible words that, Harry sensed, would break something inside this man.

"She's not coming," he blurted; everyone jerked around to stare at him. The dog pressed closer, and Harry was grateful for him, scratching his neck. He met the mans blue eyes. "She died several years ago. I'm sorry, sir," he said simply, quietly, and then turned his eyes on his relatives. "Where should I put the bags?" His green eyes sparked with rebellion, something he almost never had, and Vernon gnashed his teeth, face darkening. Instantly, the dog at Harry's side snarled at him, and Harry gripped the dogs collar before he could lunge forward. "Hush, boy, hush now," he murmured; the dog quieted with a whine.

"Singh, my servant," the old man gestured to the foreign man, who bowed to Harry slightly, palms pressing together. "He'll help you move the bags." Harry nodded politely and turned, moving back towards the luggage, followed by the Singh and the dog. As soon as the door shut, the old man whirled on Petunia, blue eyes furious.

"That boy," he said slowly, pale with fury. "Has my daughters eyes." Petunia sniffed, sneering slightly.

"The boy has been nothing but a nuisance since they dropped him on our doorstep fifteen years ago!" She snapped. The old man actually trembled with rage, and then the younger man placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Father," he said quietly. "You need to calm yourself, if only for the boys sake." The man glared at the Dursley's, then met his son's eyes, and saw the same rage, barely held in check, in those dark eyes. Taking a deep breath, the man nodded, and glared at the three in front of him.

"You'll get two rooms down the hall, only for the night, since it's almost dark and no carriages come at night since the killings started." He whirled around and headed in the direction Harry and Singh had gone. The younger man glared at the Dursley's, sneered, then turned and followed his father. The Dursley's reluctantly followed. They reached the parlor in time to watch Harry and Singh come up the steps, each with two bags and laughing slightly. The dog remained at the boys' side, watching him with doleful eyes. As soon as he set the bags down, Harry turned and ruffled the dogs' ears, scratching his neck gently.

"Good boy," he said simply; the dogs' tail wagged and he jumped up slightly and licked Harry's face, making him laugh and wipe the slobber away, shaking his head. Looking up, Harry froze, seeing the two men from before, as well as his relatives. Looking at his uncles purple face, Harry quickly straightened and wiped the entire smile from his face, giving them a serene and blank mask.

"Where shall I put these, sir?" he asked calmly, eyes turning to the old man, who stared at him silently.

"Singh will show your relatives to their rooms and move the luggage there later. Which one is yours?" Harry reluctantly patted his tattered side-bag, tightening his hold on the strap.

"I've all I need in here, sir," Harry replied, thinking _and all I own_. The man stared at him in disbelief, as did his son and Singh. Harry fidgeted nervously, and the dog growled at the room at large, pressing close to the boy. The old man gave him an odd look.

"Samson," he said sternly; the dog stopped growling, but remained tense. Harry scratched his ears gently.

"Samson," he tried, the dog looked at him, and Harry smiled slightly. "Calm down, boy." Instantly, the dog sat down, huffing. Harry turned his eyes on the old man, who was now watching him consideringly.

"What's your name?" the old man asked; Harry blinked.

"Harry Potter, sir," he replied automatically; the man smiled slightly.

"I am Sir John Talbot, Lilly's father. This is her younger brother, Lawrence Talbot." Harry stared at them both, taking in their features hurriedly. This was his grandfather and uncle! His family, more so then his aunt's. He hoped that they were nicer, as well. "You have your mothers eyes, you know, Harry," Sir John said; Harry touched his cheek, uncertain, hungry to know more about his mother.

"I do?" he asked hesitantly; Sir John nodded, coming forward. He leaned down and met Harry's eyes.

"You do," he said, smiling slightly. "And while you might have your fathers hair, I don't know, but you definitely have a Talbot's." Harry's eyes darted to the mans hair, and saw that it also pointed in every direction, though it was thinner. Harry swallowed and stared into the mans eyes.

"Does this mean you're my grandfather?" he finally asked uncertainly; Sir John blinked, and then straightened with a laugh.

"I suppose I am, my lad," he said, amused, looking over at Lawrence. "And isn't that just a shock, hmm?" Lawrence smiled slightly and nodded. Sir John set his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Come, my lad, and tell me about yourself. Lawrence! You come as well." He announced, leading Harry to the stairs; Harry glanced at his relatives warily and pressed a little closer to his newly discovered grandfather when Vernon glared at him, hands clenched into fists. Sir John tightened his hand slightly and gave Vernon a cold look, something dangerous flashing in his eyes that had the obese man taking a step back, most of the color draining from his face. Lawrence gave them a cool look, following his father up, toward the parlor.

Harry looked up at his grandfather, and back at his new uncle, and found himself smiling slightly.

He was really beginning to like Blackmoor.

**A/N:** Yay, go Sir John! Whoot! (Loved that guy in the movie. Anyone else know that the actor was Hannibal Lector? O_O I didn't until the very end! NEAT! XP) R&R!


	3. Family Discussions

**A/N:** And here's another one, catch!  
R&R!

**3**

**Family Discussions**

"So, Harry," Lawrence said, sitting in a chair. Harry sat in one as well, and Sir John moved around, lighting candles, as was his habit. "Tell us about yourself." Harry hesitated, then took a deep breath.

"Well," he said hesitantly. "I'm sixteen years old. My birthday is July thirty-first. Um, I've lived with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon since I was a baby. I used to wear glasses, but I haven't for years now. Um," he frowned. "What do you want to know?" Sir John spoke up; his back turned from them as he lit another candle.

"How about where those scars on your back came from, hmm?" Harry froze, going pale. Sir John turned, eyes dark and cool, staring into Harry's frightened green eyes. "The ones that begin at your shoulder and go down at an angle." His voice got darker, angrier. "Like whip marks. Well?" Harry didn't say anything, pressing back into the chair and not meeting anyone's eyes. Lawrence stared at him, eyes shocked, then looked up at his father, face going hard.

"He's not going back with them," he said bluntly; Sir John snorted.

"Of course not," he said; Harry looked up through his bangs, looking from one to the other, uncertain. "Now, Harry, do you have anything you can wear to the funeral in two days besides that ratty old thing?" Harry looked down at his clothes and quickly shook his head.

"I'll take you to get some clothes, then," Lawrence said calmly; Sir John grunted.

"Take Ms. Conliffe with you. She needs to focus on something, get out of the house for a while," he told Lawrence, then looked at Harry and smiled slightly. "I daresay that she'll like you, Harry, and I'm sure you'll like her as well." Harry blinked at his grandfather, uncertain, then looked at his uncle.

"Alright?" He said, making it a question. Lawrence nodded at him, smiling slightly. Sir John smiled.

"Splendid." He sat down in the last chair, leaning back. Harry found himself looking around in the silence afterward, eyes landing on the window, where a telescope sat. Then his eyes landed on the fireplace, and he found himself slowly relaxing, eyes glued to the fire, watching it flicker and dance. Samson lay at his feet and, when his grandfather handed him a glass, Harry merely murmured a thank you and took a sip without looking. He winced as the burn of the brandy slid smoothly down his throat, forcing himself not to cough. Taking a deep breath, he kept his eyes on the fire and carefully sipped his drink. The warmth soon spread from its place in his stomach to his whole body, making him relax even more, eyes slightly unfocused. In minutes, he was asleep, and dreamed that he was awake, just sitting there and watching the fire.

Sir John, when he next looked over at his grandson, smiled slightly and stood. He gently took the teens empty glass from his slack fingers. Lawrence stood and took the coverlet off of his chair, and draped it over the small teen. Samson looked up at them both, then lay his head back down, seemingly content to stay where he was. The two older men quietly left, blowing out the candles as they went. When the door closed quietly behind them, Sir John let himself scowl.

"I don't want that family under my roof nor near my blood," he growled; Lawrence tossed back the last of his brandy.

"For once, father," he said darkly. "We both agree on something. Goodnight." Lawrence bowed slightly; Sir John waved him away, stalking towards his room. When he reached it, he slammed the door behind him and promptly threw his empty glass against the far wall, shattering it. Snarling in rage, he slammed his fist into the wall, leaving a hole in it. The beast in him raged and demanded blood, and Sir John would make damn sure he got it. His bloodlust rose, but he forced it down and opened another bottle of brandy, taking several swallows straight from the bottle. He sat in his chair, glowering and brooding, and grunted when there was a knock on the door.

Singh entered warily, eyes landing first on his long time friend and master, then on the hole in the wooden wall. He stepped forward hesitantly, then paused when Sir John rose, bottle in hand. Past mistakes made Singh keep his distance, not wanting a repeat of the month before. Sir John glowered at him, and took another sip.

"What is your opinion of my _dear_ stepdaughters family, Singh?" he growled, stalking to the window. The Sikh man hesitated, watching the man warily.

"I find them much uglier inside then out, Sir John," he carefully replied; the old man laughed bitterly.

"An apt observation, old friend." He took another long swallow, the bottle already half-empty. "Petunia had always been jealous of my dear Lilly. Her looks, her charm, her intelligence, her lineage. The fact that when I die Lilly would have gotten her fair share of my lands and titles, and fortune. It made Petunia a nasty child and a nastier adult, it did." He looked up at the moon, nearly full.

"Did you know, dear friend," he said slowly. "That they whipped my grandson? Beat him too, if the way he acted was any indicator. Probably used him like a slave. Obviously starved him, maybe even did worse." He turned dark blue eyes on Singh. "And I can assure you, friend, that we are most unhappy with them." His eyes flashed that dangerous light; Singh bowed his head, hands clenched. "What is your opinion of Harry, hmm?" Sir John asked after a few moments of silence, downing the last of the brandy. Singh looked at the old man warily, and watched him begin to pace, like a trapped tiger.

"He is a gentle boy," the Sikh started. "Kind, compassionate. He has a way with animals. He's stronger then he appears, in spirit and body." Sir John found himself smiling slightly, fondly.

"He sounds just like his mother," he murmured; then he waved his servant away and tossed the empty bottle in the trash. "I am going to bed," he told Singh. The Sikh nodded and left. Sir John locked the door and stripped down to his underclothes, crawling into his bed. The belly full of brandy soon lulled him to sleep, where his dreams were full of bloodshed and screams, the full moon, and Harry's shy, smiling face.

**A/N:** Ta-Da! Half of y'all are like "WTF?" R&R to learn more!


	4. Shopping and Cursed

**A/N:** This one's a doozy, so y'all best damn well appreciate it! … ;) Toodles!  
R&R

**4**

**Shopping and Cursed**

Harry woke up in the same position he fell asleep, and blinked blurrily, confused as to why there was no fire, like there had been in his dreams. Samson sat up with a yawn, and looked up at him. Harry groaned and rubbed his green eyes, trying to wake up the rest of the way. He heard the chink of porcelain and looked around. Singh smiled at him and carefully sat a metal tray down, pouring him a cup of steaming tea. Harry thanked him sleepily and took a sip, sighing in relief as the hot tea washed away the dry feeling in his mouth and the last of the morning grogginess.

"What time is it, Mr. Singh?" He asked softly; the Sikh man smiled at him.

"It is half past seven, Harry. Did you sleep well?" He asked quietly; Harry nodded, then winced and rubbed his neck, only just feeling the crick from sleeping in a chair.

"Alright, though I think I'll manage to find a bed tonight," he said dryly; Singh laughed and smiled. Samson yawned, and Harry handed the servant his empty cup. "Thank you for that, though." He stood and stretched, popping his neck and back with a sigh.

"Breakfast will be in the dining hall at eight," Singh told him calmly. "Would you like me to show you?" Harry hesitated, then glanced down when Samson leaned against him, staring at him with doleful eyes, and he smiled.

"I think I'd like to explore for a bit, if that's okay?" He hesitated, looking up at the older man; Singh nodded, smiling.

"I shall inform Sir John and Master Lawrence of your plans, then, Harry, and that Samson will accompany you." Harry nodded, and watched the man leave with the tray. Sighing, he looked down at Samson.

"Well?" He asked, the dogs' tail wagged, thumping on the ground. "Shall we?" Harry started for the door, the hound trotting at his side. Walking around, Harry took in the many mounted heads, limbs, antlers, and horns. He paused at the stuffed mounts often, petting their pelts and hides carefully, fascinated. He loved animals, but he didn't have a problem with hunting. As he was passing a hallway, a beautiful young woman stepped out, and both jumped slightly, startled.

"Oh, excuse me, miss!" Harry exclaimed, and placed a hand on Samson to steady himself. "I didn't mean to startle you." The woman took a deep breath and smiled at him, though Harry saw that her dark eyes were even darker with sadness.

"It's alright," she said, voice soft and sweet. "Are you lost?" Harry looked at her and smiled sheepishly.

"Exploring before breakfast," he explained. "My name's Harry." He offered her his hand. "I'm Sir Johns grandson." She blinked, startled.

"I didn't know he had a grandson," she said, startled. "Oh, my name is Gwen, Gwen Conliffe. I was Ben's wife." Harry instantly stopped smiling, solemn.

"I'm sorry for your loss, madam," he told her sincerely, softly. "I never had the pleasure of meeting my uncle, but I'm sure he was a good man." She nodded, ducking her head. Harry cleared his throat softly and hesitantly offered his arm. "Shall I escort you to breakfast, madam?" She gave him a small smile and obligingly slipped her arm through his.

"How are you related to Sir John and Lawrence, then, Harry?" Gwen asked; Harry looked up at her.

"My mother, Lilly, was Sir Johns daughter from his marriage before Uncle Lawrence and Bens mother. She died when I was a baby, with my father," he told her calmly. "I've been living with her half-sister Petunia and her family for the last fifteen years." Gwen looked a little surprised, and Harry smiled at her, green eyes bright with warmth. "Yes, I'm a bit short for my age and look like I'm eleven. I know, horrible isn't it?

"Dreadful," Gwen said seriously; they broke into giggles seconds later, and walked into the dining hall still smiling. Lawrence stood from his place at the end, and Sir John managed to as well. The Dursley's managed to look up from their plates before continuing to eat on the far side of the table. Harry guided the young widow to a seat close to Lawrence, across from Petunia, unfortunately, and politely pulled her chair out for her.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, giving him a gentle smile; he smiled back at her as she sat, and pushed her chair in. Then he took the last empty seat near his grandfather, and across from Dudley, who sneered at him before he continued to eat. Harry grimaced at him, and looked at his grandfather, who was staring at Dudley like he was trying to make him choke using only his mind. Harry smiled at the thought, and silently placed some food on his plate, earning a vicious glare from Dudley.

"What are you doing?" his whale-like cousin demanded; Harry gave him a droll look, feeling much more confident with his grandfather nearby, as well as his uncle and Gwen, for some reason.

"I'm eating," he replied; Dudley scowled, looking constipated.

"That's my food!" he whined; Harry stared at him, then pointedly lifted a piece of sausage with his fork, met Dudley's eyes, and took a bite. Sir John hid a grin behind his hand, while Lawrence did the same with a cup. Dudley gaped at him, then turned.

"Mum!" He whined. "The freaks stealing my food!" Sir John narrowed his eyes and Lawrence put his cup down with a loud thump, much harder then necessary. Everything went silent, and Gwen found herself looking from person to person. Harry had his hands slightly clenched on his fork and knife, hair hiding his eyes. Silently, he purposefully raised the sausage and took another bite, lifting his face so that his bright green eyes locked with Dudley's.

"You will not speak to me like that again, Dudley Dursley," he said quietly, calmly. Dudley blinked at him, bewildered, his small mind trying to figure out what was happening. Harry stared at him for a few more moments, then calmly started eating the rest of the food on his plate. Sir John grunted.

"Damn right he won't," he growled. "Talking to my grandson like that," he muttered, and returned to eating as well. Vernon was purple in the face, teeth gritted, and Petunia was wide eyed with disbelief. Gwen finally turned to Lawrence, who stared at the Dursley family coldly. He turned his attention to her, though, when she looked at him.

"It is a family matter," he told her quietly. "I shall speak to you of it later." Gwen nodded slowly, still confused, but began to eat. Everyone finished in silence, and Sir John wiped his mouth when his plate was empty.

"Ms. Conliffe," he called; she looked up. "Lawrence is going to take Harry into town today, so that he may purchase a new wardrobe and clothes for the funeral tomorrow. I would like it if you accompanied them, if you're wishing to do so, of course." Gwen glanced at the sixteen-year-old beside her, took in his too-big clothes, and nodded firmly. "Excellent. Meanwhile," he turned his glacier blue eyes on Petunia. "Your family will pack and move into a room at the local inn, until the funeral is over. Then you may leave for London and never return." Vernon sputtered and Harry quickly moved his legs, in case Dudley decided to kick him.

"Now see here!" Vernon shouted, standing, and Lawrence was suddenly standing as well, hands planted on the table, leaning close to him.

"Sit," he whispered harshly, voice furious. "Down. Now, Mr. Dursley." Vernon stared at him, and the color slowly drained from his face. Grumbling, he sat. Lawrence remained standing and leaning though, dark eyes spitting fury. "You shall leave this house today," he said in a soft, deadly whisper, "and I pray to God that after the funeral I never have to lay eyes on your faces again." He straitened and nodded calmly towards his father, then looked at Harry and Gwen. "Shall we leave for town at noon?" They nodded.

Hours later, they were ready to leave. Harry patted Samson and told him to stay with Sir John, before following the two adults out.

The carriage waiting outside was a familiar one, and Harry grinned when Elwrick stood, holding the door open for Gwen and Lawrence. The driver winked at him.

"Ready for yer next driving lesson, lad?" he asked as Lawrence helped Gwen in; Harry nodded eagerly and clambered up onto the bench. The driver laughed and closed the door, leaving Lawrence and Gwen inside alone before climbing up and handing Harry the reins. As he got the carriage moving, Gwen gave the man across from her a stern look.

"Why do you and your father dislike the Dursley's so much?" She demanded; Lawrence looked out the window.

"Did Harry tell you how he used to live with them?" He asked after a moment; Gwen frowned.

"Yes," she said carefully; Lawrence looked at her, face blank.

"Did he tell you how they whipped him? Beat him, starved him, and used him like their personal slave?" She stared at him, horrified. "He didn't tell us, either. We found out. You heard their boy in there. He called Harry a freak, and by the sound of it his parents taught him to, and Harry was used to hearing it." Lawrence leaned forward. "Father believes they may have done worse, but unless Harry tells us, we will never know. That is why we dislike them." Gwen leaned back, staring at her hands.

"He acts so normal," she said after a few minutes of silence.

"He's stronger then we give him credit for," Lawrence replied simply. "He'd be a great actor," he said with a sigh. "And that's the problem." Gwen gave him a questioning look. "It's okay to act like someone else for a little while. I do it for a living, after all. It's acting like someone else all the time that wares on the mind, eats away at the psych. Sooner or later his mask will fall, and the real Harry will come through, and his mind could break and fracture irreparably." They rode in silence for the rest of the ride. When the carriage slowed to a stop, they were still silent. Elwrick opened the door and helped Gwen out. Lawrence nodded and paid the man, telling him that they'd need a ride back. Harry was petting the horses, murmuring to them. When he turned bright, happy eyes on his uncle and Gwen, Lawrence realized that the mask fell, and often enough that he might not have to worry about his nephews sanity as much as he thought. As long as Harry had an animal or two to interact with, and family that wouldn't hit him, he seemed to be able to release his mask.

Gwen walked over to the boy, and the horse whinnied and jerked. Instantly, Harry crooned lowly, shushing it and petting its neck. Lawrence and Elwrick watched silently.

"You spooked him," Harry told Gwen, smiling. "Here," he said, taking her hand. He gently pressed it to the horses' muzzle, petting the horse, which made a soft huffing sound and lifted his head, lipping her hand. Gwen laughed softly, delighted, and lifted her other hand to pet the horse as well. After a few minutes, though, they both pulled away, and Gwen slipped her arm into Harry's. They walked, arm-in-arm, to Lawrence, who gave a small smile and opened the door to the tailors for them.

"Can I help you?" The man at the counter asked, shoulders stiffening at the sight of Lawrence. "Mr. Talbot."

"Mr. Dorrel," Lawrence replied with a polite nod. "My nephew, Harry," he gestured, and Harry nodded politely, moving forward. "Needs a new wardrobe, as well as a suit for my brothers funeral tomorrow. You might also know Ms. Conliffe, my brothers wife." The rat-like Mr. Dorrel nodded politely, and took a tape measure from his pocket, gesturing for Harry to stand up on the small stool in the middle of the room, which was filled with hanging fabrics. Harry obeyed, giving Lawrence a nervous look. The tailor gave his clothes a distasteful look.

"Take the shirt off and I'll measure your upper torso," Mr. Dorrel told him; Harry went pale and clutched his shirt to himself, sending a pleading look to his uncle, who stepped forward and tapped Mr. Dorrel on the shoulder and jerked his head, signaling that he wanted to talk. Gwen went to Harry and took his hand, murmuring to him comfortingly. Lawrence bent his head down to Mr. Dorrel's level.

"My father and I have only just found out that Harry even existed," he told the man slowly, voice low. "And we not only found out he existed, but that he had been living with some rather nasty people. He has scars and probably bruises, and that makes him very self-conscious. I am willing to pay extra, but I would rather have your word, from one man to another, that Harry's injuries will be taken into discretion." Mr. Dorrel slowly nodded, looking over at the boy, taking in his small build and baggy close. He took a deep breath, and then nodded again.

"My word, Talbot, from one man to another." Lawrence nodded and moved over to Harry.

"Uncle Lawrence?" Harry asked meekly; Lawrence reached up and took his face in both of his hands, bringing him down until their foreheads touched and their eyes met.

"Listen to me Harry," Lawrence said softly. "I know you're scared. I know you don't want to do this. I know this. Now, I need to know, do you trust me to take care of you?" Harry's eyes, that astonishingly bright green, were filled with fear and tears as they stared into his own dark brown.

"I really don't want to do this, Uncle Lawrence," he whispered voice cracking. Lawrence rubbed the back of his neck soothingly.

"He wont do or say anything, okay Harry?" Harry slowly nodded, and Lawrence leaned back and kissed his forehead. "I'll be here, okay? Me and Gwen both." Harry nodded slowly, and Lawrence backed away, stepping to the side so that he was beside Gwen. Mr. Dorrel stepped forward again, carefully, and Harry once more clung to his shirt, not meeting anyone's eyes.

"Do you need help with the shirt, lad?" Mr. Dorrel asked calmly, as if it happened all the time. His cheeks pinking in shame, Harry nodded and bowed his head. Lawrence quickly stepped forward and gently lifted the shirt off of his nephews' head. Gwen covered her mouth in horror, tears filling her eyes. Harry didn't look at any of them, even when Lawrence backed away and Mr. Dorrel stepped forward, pale faced, to carefully, gently, begin to measure. Lawrence was blank faced with shock as he took in his nephews' chest.

His skin was pearly white, and he was thin enough you could count his ribs with ease. The only colors, besides his pale nipples, were the scars and bruises. The bruises covered the left side of his ribcage, like someone had kicked him repeatedly. There were tannish-pink scars all over. One in particular, was raged and torn looking, and led from the bottom of his right ribcage across and down, to just under his belly button. It was an inch wide, and caved in about a centimeter. There was a burnt image of a cross over his heart, and more burns all over his chest. On his lower right arm, the skin looked like someone had tried to boil it off, with bumps and rivulets leading down to the wrist. His other arm had a raw looking callous around the wrist, as if he had been chained to something so long that it had toughened the skin. A dozen short, clean scars dotted his chest, and few millimeters wide and an inch or two long, depending on which one you looked at. His talisman rested on his chest, the sad man now looking out at the world while the wolf hid his face. Harry never looked up; so Gwen spoke up, voice weak.

"Harry?" She asked softly; he reluctantly looked at her, flinching as Mr. Dorrel gently wrapped the measuring tape around his waist. "Will you tell us how these happened?" she gestured to his front; Harry swallowed and nodded, looking away again. His fingers lifted to touch the bruises.

"Un-" he stopped himself and thinned his lips, grimacing. "_Vernon_ didn't like the fact that I'd gotten higher scores on a test then Dudley. He hit me and kicked me while I was on the ground. They're almost healed, now," he added, glancing down at the greenish yellow bruises, with purple splotches every other spot. "Another week, maybe two." He took a shaky breath and touched the marks on his chest.

"Aunt Petunia got mad at me for dropping the good china on the floor," he said, grimacing in remembrance. "She made me pick up every piece and stab myself with them, so I wouldn't forget."

"Jesus," Dorrel muttered, gray faced. Harry didn't hear him.

"This," he touched the scar on his stomach. "Is from Dudley. He got a new pocketknife and wasn't sure if it was strong or sharp enough. Him and his friends beat me up, pinned me down, and decided to see if they could remove a kidney." He smiled bitterly. "Dudley got sick when they saw my guts, and they all ran home and left me at the park to bleed. I nearly died that time, I think. I don't think I cared back then, seeing as how I was ten." He looked thoughtful, and then touched the scars on his arm.

"I remember this one," he said with a near fond look on his face, in opposition to his self-mocking smile. "I was six, and had just started cooking all the meals. I'd burnt the bacon, so Vernon decided to burn me. Boiling bacon grease on my arm. Passed out after that one, and woke up with an ace bandage and Aunt Petunia telling me that I still had to make lunch." he chuckled without humor, eyes dark.

"And that one, Harry?" Lawrence asked, voice strained, trying to keep from throwing up. Dorrel was trembling as he attempted to measure. Harry blinked, and then looked down, touching the cross-shaped burn.

"Ah, yes," he said with a grimace. "My dear Aunt Petunia decided that I was a freak and a demon, so she heated up an old cross and had Vernon hold me down. 'God will burn the freakishness out of you,' she told me when she pressed it to my chest." Harry sighed. "When will people learn that God does not want us to harm one another in his name? People have fought wars for Him, and His angels still cry over every life taken in his name." Harry shook his head sadly. Dorrel walked to the counter and pulled out a flask. Opening it, he chugged down all its' contents, then shakily whipped his mouth.

"I need to measure your shoulders," he managed to tell Harry. "So y-you'll need to turn around, lad." Harry swallowed but nodded, turning around quickly. When his back was totally revealed, Gwen's tears slid down her face and Lawrence had to grip a nearby clothes rack and squeeze it to keep from running back to Talbot Hall and killing the Dursley's with his bare hands.

Across Harry's back where whip marks, from shoulder across to opposite hip, an "x" of thick, layered scars, from a belt or switch, and some from what looked like a piece of metal. Also, across the bottom of his back, in the untouched space of the "x" the word FREAK had been burned, a brand almost. Harry didn't explain these scars, or the still bruised and puffy newness to some of the whip markings.

"Done with the upper torso," Dorrel managed. "Y-you don't have to drop the trousers for me to measure your lower half, lad. I'll just, just, work around it." He swallowed and helped Harry put his shirt back on. The sixteen-year-old said nothing, clinging to his shirt and trembling slightly. When Dorrel was done, Harry moved over to Gwen and silently huddled into her when she opened her arms and hugged him gently, rocking him and kissing his forehead, crying.

"Go ahead and wait in the carriage, Gwen," Lawrence said, reaching over to gently stroke his nephew's black hair. "I'll finish up with work here, and we'll go back to the Hall, alright?" The widow nodded silently, and hustled Harry discreetly out into the carriage. Elwrick didn't ask what was wrong, though he was obviously worried. Inside, Lawrence looked at Dorrel.

"Do you have anything to drink?" he asked tiredly; Dorrel silently got out a bottle of whiskey and poured them each a shot, which they downed. They sipped the next one.

"Who did that to him?" the tailor asked quietly; Lawrence slowly smiled and leaned forward.

"Let me tell you," he all but purred, and told the tailor everything about the Dursley's, and how they would be looking for a place to stay in town that was cheap. A gleam came to the tailors' eyes and he smirked.

"I'll deal with it," he told Lawrence, who nodded and smirked firmly. "Now, the lad's clothes." Lawrence nodded and began naming off colors and clothes. Blacks, grays, greens, and whites, all sorts of cuts and designs, all expensive but easily paid for. When they were done, they shook hands and Lawrence paid him with extra.

"For when you go down to the pub in a bit," he said, and nodded once more before leaving. He glanced at Elwrick.

"Talbot Hall, sir?" the driver asked; Lawrence nodded and climbed into the carriage without a word. Harry was curled up, his head buried in Gwen's lap, face hidden. Gwen was petting his hair gently, soothingly, and Lawrence wasn't sure if it was for her comfort or Harry's. Probably both, he decided, looking out the window. They rode in silence for a while, until Harry shifted. He turned his head, and stared at his uncle with red-rimmed green eyes. Silently, he rolled out of Gwen's lap and over to Lawrence, where he cuddled into the taller mans side. Lawrence didn't say anything, merely wrapped his arm around his nephews' shoulders and pressed his lips to hair and closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

He remained that way for the rest of the ride, and Gwen wiped away her tears and looked out the window, watching as they crossed the bridge to Talbot Hall, passing another carriage that had the four Dursley briefcases in the back. She stared at it, and closed her eyes, turning her head away, to stare at her hands silently.

When they pulled up in front of the Hall, Gwen left, paid the driver, and went inside without a word. Lawrence silently lifted Harry, who had fallen asleep, and carefully pulled him out of the carriage, carrying him inside. Elwrick waited until they were indoors before he turned the horses and left. Inside, Lawrence silently strode past Singh, face hard and cold, and carried Harry upstairs. He passed his father, meeting his eyes meaningfully and looking down the hall toward the parlor they'd sat in the night before. Then he carried the sleeping boy who couldn't weigh more then ninety pounds into one of the more expensively furnished rooms, and gently laid him on the bed, covering him up after pulling off his shoes. Samson trotted in, stared at Lawrence silently, then jumped onto the bed and curled up protectively beside the boy, nuzzling his head.

Lawrence left silently, closing the door behind him. Singh was standing there where his father had been. Lawrence nodded at him and gestured to the room, lifting a finger to his lips. The Sikh man nodded, smiled, and turned, going downstairs. Lawrence turned and stalked down the hall to the parlor, where his father sat waiting, frowning heavily.

As soon as he closed the doors behind him, Lawrence picked up the new bottle of brandy, poured himself a drink, downed the entire glass and promptly threw the glass into the fireplace, where it shattered and the fire devoured the alcohol that still clung to it. Snarling he whirled and clenched his fists, and then clutched his wrists behind his back so he wouldn't lash out, pacing, teeth bared and a surprisingly animalistic growl tearing from his lips.

"Lawrence?" Sir John asked carefully, eying his son thoughtfully.

"I want to kill them, Father," he growled out, eyes spitting fury as he turned to face his father. "I want to tear them to pieces and make them suffer." Sir John sat straighter, now, tensed slightly, something flashing in his eyes.

"Who, Lawrence?" He asked calmly; his son, usually a calm and gentle man, snarled.

"The Dursley's," he spat, snatching up the brandy bottle and taking a long gulp. "At the tailor shop," Lawrence told him, continuing to pace, bottle in hand. "Harry had to take off his shirt so that proper measurements could be taken. He had _scars_, Father, from when they beat him and burned him and stabbed him and whipped him. When they _branded_ him, and burnt a cross into his chest to try and burn the _freakishness_ out of him!" He downed a good half of the bottle and set it down with a thunk. He turned to his father and walked over to him. Silently, he fell to his knees and stared into his fathers' eyes, his own filled with turmoil.

"You know," he whispered hoarsely. "For the longest of times, I've hated you. I've blamed you for everything. And now, now" he let out a laugh that was nearly a sob. "Now I feel so guilty for doing so. I know how worse you could have been. I'm sorry, Father," he said, slumping forward and hiding his face in his fathers lap. Sir John stared down at him, shocked. "I'm sorry," Lawrence whispered hoarsely; Sir John placed his hand on his oldest sons head and closed his eyes. Lawrence closed his eyes as well and wept for the first time since his mother died. Sir John sighed and bowed his head, stroking his sons' messy black hair, blue eyes calm.

"Ours is a cursed family, Lawrence," he said quietly. "Cursed to sorrow and pain and death, no matter what. Your mother, your sister, your brother, your nephew, and even you and I. All of us are cursed, my son," he heaved a sigh, blue eyes distant. "It has always been so." Lawrence said nothing, and Sir John said nothing else. They sat there, father and son, and for once in thirty-five years, were totally at peace with one another.

**A/N:** Aww… R&R


	5. Full Moon Funeral

**A/N:** Don't worry, y'all, ALL WILL BE REVEALED!…

Maybe.

R&R, lolz!

**5**

**The Full Moon Funeral**

The day of the funeral was gray. The sky, the grounds, the forest, even the people were gray, solemn and silent as the fog that was wrapping Blackmoor in its grasp. Harry fidgeted slightly in his fitted black suit, with its green tie and vest. He walked between Gwen and Sir John, with Lawrence right behind him as he followed the coffin that held the uncle he'd never met. Silently, he bowed his head, reached out, and took his grandfathers hand in his own. Sir John looked at him for a few seconds out of the corner of his eye, and squeezed his hand gently. The Dursley's were farther back, behind the procession, and Harry couldn't help but feel better at how horrible his family looked.

They had slept on hard beds in the worst rooms at the inn, paying nearly four times the cost of one good room. Dorrel had been good to his word to Lawrence, and had made sure that it was hell for the family, spreading rumors of all sorts, with the help of Elwrick and the towns three-gossipmonger ladies. The Dursley's were called child abusers, heathens, pagans, devil-worshipers, sheep-fuckers, and anything else you could use to ruin a reputation. It was Petunia's worse nightmare, and all three Dursley's blamed Harry. He didn't mind though. He actually preferred it that way.

Silently, Harry watched as they set his Uncle Ben in his family tomb. Then watched as Gwen left, followed minutes later by Lawrence. He stayed with his grandfather, holding his hand silently, and mourned the uncle he'd never meet. He bowed his head and prayed for his uncles' soul, tears trickling down his cheeks as he also sent a prayer for his uncle and grandfather, as well as Gwen. He prayed for the souls of the other dead men, and their families, and he prayed for his mother and fathers souls, asking that, if God chose, to tell them that he loved them and missed them and hoped that they'd meet each other in Heaven when the time came for him to leave.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen," Harry said quietly, crossing himself. Sir John looked down at him and smiled slightly; the local priest also noticed and walked over.

"Are you Christian?" he asked Harry quietly, eyes demanding the correct answer; Harry stared at him.

"I'm not sure," he said quietly. "I pray and believe in God. I cross myself and go to church when chores and such allow me. I also, however, believe that no one is denied Heaven unless they deny it, and that God forgives all who can forgive themselves and ask forgiveness. I believe that any who worship a different god will get into their version of Heaven if they follow their way devoutly, and I believe you should be allowed to love who you wish, no matter their gender, because God loves us all, no matter _our_ gender, and He made us in His likeness." He stared up at the priest, eyes calm and serene.

"Does that make me a Christian, Reverend?" he asked quietly. "Or something blasphemous? If so, I don't believe I care. I'll worship Him the way I believe is right, and you'll worship Him the way _you_ believe is right, and so neither of us worships Him wrongly. Now, would you allow my grandfather and I some peace, so that we may pray for my uncles' soul? Thank you, Reverend," Harry said without letting him reply, turning and leading his grandfather a little ways away, towards the tomb. As soon as they were out of earshot, Harry muttered a rather unflattering name under his breath at the priest, and Sir John snorted, wrapping his arm around his grandsons shoulders, and kissed his head.

When they returned to the Hall, Gwen packed her bags, her carriage already waiting downstairs. Harry watched her sadly as she put her things on the carriage and talked to Lawrence and Sir John, giving them some privacy, before the teen darted forward and hugged the dark eyed woman around the waist, saying goodbye. She hugged him back and kissed his forehead, before getting into her carriage and leaving, waving at Harry through the window.

"I believe your enquiries can wait until tomorrow, Lawrence," Sir John said suddenly. "I'd prefer it if you stayed inside tonight. In case your lunatic idea has some truth to it, tonight is a full moon. And," he hesitated, then squeezed his sons shoulder. "I don't want to loose you too." The old man went inside, leaving nephew and uncle standing alone, staring off after Gwen's carriage.

"You're going to ignore Grandpa and go out tonight," Harry said; Lawrence remained silent. "Where are you going?" Lawrence looked at him.

"The Gypsy caravan." Harry nodded.

"Can I come?" Lawrence hesitated, then met those green eyes for a few seconds, before nodding. Harry nodded back silently. "When do we leave?"

"An hour before sunset," Lawrence told him quietly. "By the back roads." Harry nodded silently. "Can you ride a horse?" Harry flashed him a grin, green eyes sparking with mischief.

"Won't know 'till I try, now will I?" Lawrence smiled slightly and shook his head, ruffling his nephews' hair. They both went inside, Harry going to the parlor to curl up on a chair and read _Mac Beth_, and Lawrence going to his room to change out of his funeral suit. Sir John played his piano, Samson stayed by him all day, and Singh was in his room, polishing and cleaning his gun.

Dinner came and Harry was remarkably more relaxed then Lawrence about their upcoming ride. The actor was having problems playing his part, distracted and unenthusiastic. Harry watched as he finally excused himself and left the table. It was an hour and a half until sunset, and he sighed, looking at Sir John knowingly.

"Gwen's left," he told the older man, as if it explained everything; the old man frowned and turned his head, looking after his oldest. "He'll be better by morning," the teen told him, looking after his uncle silently. Sir John grunted, finished eating, and excused himself. Harry polished off his meal and small glass of wine, stood, and went to his room. There he changed into his old clothes, pulling on his new jacket, which reached his calves and the sleeves went past his wrists. It had soft, gray and white fur on the inside, warming him. It was a gift from Sir John, who said that it had once been Bens when he was younger, and that the fur was wolverine. Harry didn't mind that it smelled old.

He slipped downstairs and out the backdoor, staying close to the house incase someone looked out the window. Slipping into the stables, he found Lawrence with two horses saddled, his own black stallion and a smaller gray gelding. He told Harry the gelding was for him, and that his name was Ash. Harry stroked the older horses neck and nose, murmuring to him, before he pulled himself into the saddle with surprising grace.

"Guess I _can_ ride a horse," he told Lawrence, who rolled his eyes, pulled himself onto his own horse, and led the way, running quickly down a back road, hidden from the houses view. Harry followed, behind and to the right so that his uncles' horse wouldn't kick stones and mud at Ash or him.

They reached the caravan just after sunset, and walked in without a hostile glance in their direction. A little boy, about ten, ran forward.

"Take your horses, sirs?" he asked eagerly; Lawrence nodded. A man sitting nearby said something to him in Romanian. "He says you must stay in the camp," the boy translated for them. "The woods are not safe." Lawrence leaned down.

"Can you ask him if he knows who sells these?" he asked the boy, showing them both the medallion he'd gotten from his dead brothers belongings. The boy answered as the man and the woman sitting next to him exchanged odd, knowing looks.

"You're looking for Maleva," he said.

"Who?" Lawrence asked; the boy pointed at a small cart, red and brown.

"Maleva," the boy repeated. Lawrence thanked him and Harry followed him off the horse, going with the boy to tie the horses as Lawrence went to talk to the mysterious Maleva. Patting Ash on the side, Harry kissed his temple and ruffled the boys' hair with a gentle smile, before his eyes caught on a familiar woman. Startled, he paused, then slowly grinned. He quickly walked over and the woman turned before he reached her. She cried something in Romanian and threw her arms around him. He laughed and kissed her forehead, delighted.

"How are you?" he asked, concerned, holding he at arms length and looking her over. "Did you get the cough taken care of?" The old woman grinned up at him, her teeth just as yellow and sharp as before.

"Aye, child, I did. And ye, how are ye?" She looked at him now, worriedly; he smiled at her warmly.

"I'm better now then ever before," he told her as she took his hands and led him to a nearby fire, where a young Gypsy woman and her daughter sat, playing games and talking quietly. "I found my grandfather and uncle, and they removed me from my aunts… area of personal space," he finally decided on, and the old woman grinned again.

"Good," she said sternly. "They made your jewel-eyes dark and sad." She took his hand and turned it palm-up in her own, tracing lines with her fingers. "Your future is filled with turmoil, my young friend, but in happiness is how you shall leave 'dis world." Harry smiled at her.

"That is all any of us can ask for, ma'am." She smiled.

"Aye, lad, aye." Then she shook her head. "No more of 'dis 'Ma'am' business. I am Micah," she gestured to the young woman and her daughter. "Dis is my granddaughter Natasha, and her daughter Maria." Harry smiled at the two warmly, and the little girl giggled.

"I'm Harry," he greeted, smiling.

"Do ye still have my ring and talisman, Harry?" she asked; Harry nodded, showing her; she nodded, pleased. "Keep dem with ye always, young friend. They shall help in ways only the gods shall know." Harry looked up, when the sound of a sharp whistle reached his ears, as well as the sounds of horses and men shouting. Standing, he curiously headed towards the men that rode up, and noticed Maria running off after the young boy from before, to play. Harry moved close enough to see an old man with a gun demanding the dancing bear the Gypsy's had, accusing it of doing the killings.

"Nonsense," the bear's handler exclaimed. "He dances, that's all." The bear sniffed the air for a moment as a police officer ran up, grabbing the old man.

"We've come for the bear, Nye," the old man told him stubbornly. "It's been doing all the killings!"

"For Christ's sake!" The officer exclaimed, exasperated. "He's harmless," he scolded; the bear suddenly growled, stood up on its hind legs and roared. Everyone cringed, but then a sharp choking cry erupted and everyone looked. A Gypsy man choked and fell forward, his back flayed to the bone and a little beyond.

Everyone started screaming and running around. Lawrence exited Maleva's cart, looking around. A man near Harry was screaming, his right leg and left arm just _gone_. Pale and scared, Harry looked around, surrounded by screams and shouts. His eyes landed on Maria and he darted forward, scooping her up. She wrapped her arms around him and he looked around desperately. The sound of gunshots had him turning in time to watch Lawrence tackle Natasha out of the way as the beast leaped at her, barely missing both of them.

"Mama!" Maria cried as Harry ran to them. Lawrence pushed her at him.

"Stay in the camp!" he gasped running to help. Harry grabbed Natasha's hand and hurriedly led them both to Maleva's cart, pushing them inside before poking his head in. Micah wrapped them in a hug from her position next to a slightly younger looking woman with a small gold scorpion on her forehead.

"Stay here!" he gasped, before pulling out and running. He skidded to a stop, eyes darting around, and caught on the young boy from before, running out of the camp. Instantly, Harry was after him, gasping for breath but catching up soon before the foggy stones up ahead. He heard Lawrence shouting for him, but his mind was filled with fear for the little boy. He grabbed the boys' hand and led him through the stones, looking over his shoulder fearfully.

"Come on!" he gasped to the boy as they left the foggy rocks, and the boy whimpered, running as fast as he could. They reached the trees beyond and Harry took a sharp left, planning on circling around, but the boy tripped. Knowing that the boy couldn't run forever, Harry looked around, eyes landing on a tree with its lowest branch well above his head. Quickly, he scooped up the boy and ran to it.

"You have to climb," he gasped, lifting the boy. The boy strained but couldn't reach the branch.

"I can't reach it!" he whispered, terrified; Harry flinched at the sound of a gunshot from the stones.

"I'm going to throw you up!" Harry gasped. "Can you grab the branch, and climb higher?" The boy nodded and Harry took a deep breath and heaved, throwing the boy. Fear gave him strength, and the Gypsy boy landed nearly on the branch with an 'oof!'. "Climb!" Harry whispered frantically as more gunshots sounded. The boy climbed to the next branch, but was too short for the third, and instead chose to stand, clinging to the trunk and making himself look as small as possible. Harry turned at the sound of a snarl and pressed his back to the trunk.

Maybe ten yards away was the beast, snarling. The Gypsy boy let out a quiet sob and the beast froze. Harry swallowed and looked up at the boy, who was staring down at him with terrified eyes. The beast snarled and they both looked to see it stalking towards them. The boy sobbed and Harry, deciding discretion wasn't possible, tried to sooth him.

"It's okay," he gasped, staring at the beast as it stood on its hind legs, taller then him by a good three feet, snarling. "I want you to close your eyes and look at the tree, okay boy? Don't look, no matter what you hear, and I want you to pray, to anyone and everyone, okay? Don't move, don't make loud noises, okay?" The boy sobbed and the beast snarled, feet away now. "It'll all be okay," Harry told the boy one more time, eyes locked on the beast, trembling.

It was covered in thick, coarse fur; its only slightly elongated snout dripping with blood and gore, as was its three-inch-long hooked talons and arms. It was male, Harry saw with a terrified glance, and had a tail that reached its bent knees and was as ragged as the rest of it. It snarled at him and took a swipe, it's claws ripping cleanly through his too-big shirt, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath, reaching up to pull out his talisman and clench it in his fist, absurdly afraid that he would loose it. The beast snarled at him, towering over him, before looking up at the boy in the tree and seeming to grin. Harry gasped, and, afraid for the boy, stepped closer to the beast, instantly gaining it's attention. It snarled at him and he stood his ground, looking up at the child once, and then turning his bright green eyes on the monster again.

"Don't," he whispered to the monster. It tilted its head, pointed ears twitching. "Don't hurt the boy," Harry begged, pitching his voice so that said boy couldn't hear it. "Please," he whispered, then cried out when the beast slammed him into the tree. It pinned him, clawed hands wrapped around his wrists, snarling. Then it paused, sniffing him. He closed his eyes when it sniffed his face, and he winced when its breath hit his nose, smelling of meat and blood. It growled at him and his eyes snapped open, bright green meeting feral green-yellow. He stared into those eyes for a minute as the beasts lips pulled back from his fangs. Closing said green eyes, Harry turned his head away, praying the beast would rip out his throat and end him quickly.

Instead of fangs ripping into his throat, though, Harry was shocked when something hot, wet, and rough dragged up his neck. Blinking, he remained still, bewildered, as the beast _licked_ his _neck_ and whined low in its throat. When it leaned away, Harry carefully turned his head and stared at it, bewildered, when it also released his wrists. Huffing in its throat, the beast stared at him, then looked up at the boy, huffed again, turned, fell on all fours, and ran away with surprising speed. Harry stared after it blankly, shocked, and then shook his head, looking up.

"Boy?" he called softly. "It's gone, boy. You can come down." The boy scrambled onto the bottom branch and jumped into Harry's arms, staring up at him with wide dark eyes from his pale face.

"It didn't kill you," he whispered; Harry shook his head. The boy blinked slowly. "I'm glad," he murmured; Harry squeezed him a little tighter and looked off in the direction the beast went.

"Me too, little one," he murmured, turning back toward the caravan. "Me too."

**A/N:** O_O XC Oh shite! BAD PUPPEH! Lolz, R&R


	6. Bitten By The Beast

**A/N:** This one's another Doozy, ppls. Beware the EPICNESS! O_O

R&R or go insane…

TOO LATE! Lolz!

**6**

**Bitten By The Beast**

When Harry walked into the caravan with the little boy, a man cried out, and they were soon surrounded. The boy threw himself into a mans arms, clinging and crying, and the man hugged him fiercely. Harry looked around as the Gypsy's talked in Romanian and touched the little boy, relieved. He didn't see his uncle anywhere.

"Uncle Lawrence?" He called, worried, and the man holding the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him to Maleva's cart. Pulling him inside, Harry went pale with fear. His uncle lay shirtless on Maleva's table as she sewed a nasty wound on his neck.

"Uncle Lawrence!" he gasped, tears in his eyes as he darted forward, nimbly avoiding a Gypsy woman's attempt to stop him. He knelt at his uncles' head, and began to help a Gypsy man wipe blood and sweat from his uncle, whispering to him soothingly and touching his head fearfully. He turned fear-filled eyes on the woman who had to be Maleva.

"Will he live?" He asked; she stared at him with sad brown eyes.

"He will," she told him quietly. "Whether or not he'll want to is another question." Harry stared at her, confused.

"Why wouldn't he?" He demanded; the woman who tried to stop him before answered.

"He was bitten by the beast," she hissed. "We should kill him now and save him some misery."

"You would make me a sinner," Maleva told her, carefully focusing on the wound. The woman crossed her arms.

"There is no sin in killing a beast," she said; Harry glared at her, green eyes sparking brightly.

"My uncle," he said with quiet intensity, "will not be killed or so help me I will do something incredibly violent in retaliation against those who kill him." Maleva looked at him, then smiled slightly, bent down and bit through the string. Lawrence choked and jerked, trying to sit up. Harry pressed his hand against his uncles' hot forehead, crooning to him. The little boy blurted something in Romanian, but Harry ignored him, bowing his head and praying quietly for his uncle's well being. Maleva wrapped a bandage around his uncles' neck, and then touched Harry's hand. He crossed himself, said Amen, and looked up at her.

"The boy says you faced the beast to protect him, and it let you live," she said. "Is this true?" Harry frowned at her, sitting back. Abruptly, he remembered the beasts initially attack and looked down at his shirt, which had rather obvious claw marks on it, exposing bruised and scared flesh. He quickly checked his stomach, and found no wounds.

"Yes," he told her, "Though it struck at me first, see," he showed her his shirt. "The shirt's big enough that it missed skin. After that, it snarled a lot, shoved me into the tree, sniffed me, and licked my neck." He grimaced at the last, rubbing his neck with a shudder. "Nasty wet tongue," he muttered. Maleva stared at him, and her eyes landed on his talisman. She reached out and lifted it, staring at it.

"This is Micah's," she said quietly; Harry nodded. "She gifted it to you. What else?" Harry blinked and lifted his hand, showing her the ring. The Gypsy frowned thoughtfully, then nodded, letting go of his hand and the talisman. "You and your uncle will remain here tonight," she told him. "It will be safe to return you home in the morning." Harry thanked her and reluctantly left his uncle in her care, following the boy and his father, who welcomed him in their tent. The man thanked him softly for saving his son, and his wife threw her arms around first the boy, then her husband and, when the man and boy told her in Romanian about what Harry had done, she threw her arms around him as well, kissing his cheek.

He slept with the boy curled up at his side on a thin mat under a warm blanket. The adults lay nearby. They had fed him rabbit stew, which he liked, and introduced themselves as Vivian and Markus Ginovus, and their son's name was Neeko. Harry was also told that he was welcome anytime in any Ginovus family members home, from then on for forever. He slept peacefully, though worry for his uncle and confusion about the beasts' actions plagued his minds. He dreamed of the sky and stars, and rustling tree branches.

The morning dawned mere hours later. All the Blackmoor citizens that had been in the camp had died, with twelve Gypsies. Micah and her family had done what Harry had said, and had hidden with Maleva in her cart. As had three other Gypsies, one of them a child barely three, who was now an orphan. Harry took to the toddler like a bee to honey, rocking him and cuddling him close as the Gypsies loaded his uncle into a cart carefully. The teen was standing by their two horses, murmuring to the child, who was mostly asleep anyways. Harry hid his face in the child's tousled black hair for a moment, breathing in the smell of smoke and soap.

"Harry?" Natasha was standing in font of him, Maria blinking sleepily at her side, holding her dress. "I will take the child, alright? His parents were friends of mine. He'll be well taken care of." Harry stared at her, then silently handed her the child, stroking his hair when the boy sleepily wrapped his arms around the young mothers neck. Then Harry nodded at her and pulled himself gracefully into Ash's saddle. Tightening his hold on the reins to the stallion as he steered the gray gelding to the cart. He followed it out of the camp, waving to Neeko when the boy waved goodbye. When they were on the path to Talbot Hall, the cart lurched forward, speeding up, and Harry pushed the horses faster to keep up with them.

They reached the hall an hour later, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief when his grandfather came out with a gun, Singh right behind him. Sir John ran to the cart.

"Lawrence?" He asked; peering over the side. His blue eyes widened slightly when he saw his son. "Holy Mother of God," he muttered. "Help carry him in, Singh!" He ordered, and then saw Harry, who climbed down from his horse. His face paled slightly, staring at Harry's stomach. Harry blinked, looked down, and saw the claw marks in his shirt.

"He missed," he told his grandfather, moving forward. "He missed me, Grandpa," he said, then threw his arms around his grandfather, shaking and burying his face into the old mans tiger-fur coat. Sir John closed his eyes and hugged Harry close, relieved.

"Let's go inside," he murmured. "Lawrence need's to be tended." Harry nodded and followed his grandfather in, not moving away from his side. Samson ran up to him, and pressed into his side, whining, so Harry placed a hand on his head.

"Good dog," he managed weakly. "Good dog."

Within hours, Gwen arrived, pale and guilty looking. She didn't leave Lawrence's side, tending to him all day. She went to her room and slept, but was at the wounded mans side again after breakfast, maybe even before. Harry spent at least an hour a day with his uncle, spending the rest with his grandfather and Singh, who were teaching him to shoot.

Nearly a month passed before Lawrence was found sitting up in bed, five days before the next full moon. Harry had been relieved, but now he had a new worry to think about. The Gypsies had told him that Lawrence had been bitten by the beast, that there was no cure. His mind wandered, jumping from thought to thought.

Uncle Ben and two men had died on a full moon. The attack last month was on a full moon. The beast had stood like a man, and had at least a grasp on the human language. Harry froze as another thought came to mind: Lawrence's mother had died on a full moon, by apparent "Self Mutilation". There was only one person who was connected to it all. Harry swallowed, and decided to wait. He'd wait and watch for the full moon, and if his suspicions were correct.

The day after Lawrence woke up, a strange inspector arrived. Harry was the one to answer the door, staring up at him warily. He was tall and thin, with a brown mustache and brown hair. He looked down at Harry, startled.

"I am Inspector Francis Abeline," he told Harry, taking off his hat. "From Scotland Yard. I have a few questions for Lawrence Talbot. Tell me, miss, is Sir John home?" Harry narrowed his green eyes up at the man, affronted. His hair was halfway down his neck now, and made him look more feminine. He was _definitely_ going to have it cut. He was tired of being called a girl.

"My name's Harry," he told the Inspector coolly. "I'm Lawrence Talbot's _nephew_. My grandfather is inside, but I believe you are wasting your time." Harry scowled up at the man. "My uncle suffered a traumatic event. It has caused some memory loss, and suggestions by those few locals who have visited to check on his well being have suggested ideas and theories that have taken the places of those lost memories. The doctor suggested a beast, just yesterday night, and the Gypsies suggest a devil. Before the attack, Lawrence himself was almost certain that it was a man, a lunatic. Now he's not sure what to believe, and the doctor has gotten skittish around him because his wounds healed so well." Harry let the inspector in, leading him toward his grandfather and Gwen, who were standing at the end of the stairs. "Of course," Harry told the Inspector calmly, lying through his teeth. "Maleva, the Gypsy mystic woman, put some kind of herbal remedy on the wound after she sewed it up, and told me it would help the healing and remove the scar." The Inspector frowned, obviously unhappy about it. Harry left him with his grandfather and Gwen, going upstairs to sit in his room at the small desk there.

Grabbing a quill and a piece of parchment, he dipped the quill in the ink and carefully began to draw, wrist loose and easy, making his movements graceful and elegant. He didn't stop, until the sound of Samson barking had him standing and peering out his window. He silently watched as Inspector Abeline's carriage drove away. Looking over at his desk, his eyes landed on his drawing. A howling wolf, surrounded by a circle that depicted the moon's phases, the full moon at the top, and several leafy vines surrounded the entire thing, with delicate, detailed lilies growing on them. Harry stared at it silently, then sighed. Life was getting more and more complicated.

Another day passed, and Harry frowned when he heard horses coming up the road. Closing his book, he stood and hurried out. Gwen passed him, on the way to Sir John.

"We have visitors," she said; Harry nodded, hurrying outside. Lawrence was standing in front of the men and horses, as well as the carriage that arrived.

"Hello Doctor," Lawrence called to one of the men. "I thought our appointment wasn't 'till Friday."

"Come with us," another man ordered.

"It's nearly the full moon," the priest said, stepping forward. "You were bitten by the beast. You bear his mark now." Harry scowled, walking forward to stand next to his uncle, eyes narrowed. The priest gave him a wary but dismissive look.

"Mr. Talbot," another man whom Harry knew as Strickland spoke up. "There are many of us here looking for a natural explanation. Help us." Another man spoke up, sneering slightly.

"Come on, Talbot," he jeered. "Show us your wound." He pushed his horse closer. The priest spoke up once more.

"We are told it heals in an unnatural way." The horse got closer, and Lawrence looked at it. Harry saw something flash in his eyes, before the horse reared away, neighing loudly. Four men lunged forward with rope, attacking Lawrence.

"Get your hands off of me," he snarled, struggling. Harry lunged forward and punched one in the face, satisfaction thrilling though him as blood gushed from the mans now broken nose. The man snarled and leaped at the boy, knocking him to the ground and slamming his fist into Harry's face. Harry yelped, reared his fist back and hit the man again. They rolled, hitting and punching, cursing at each other.

"Will you let him murder your wives and children?" The priest demanded of Strickland and the doctor, as well as a third man on a horse who had been silent thus far. Harry's eyes flashed and he slammed his elbow into the man he was fighting, hitting his crotch. The mans eyes rolled back and he rolled away, clutching his groin. Harry rose, green eyes wild, and threw himself at the three men attempting to rope his uncle, a snarl ripping from his lips.

A gunshot exploded, and the statue next to the sneering man (_Montford_, Harry remembered blearily as he got an elbow in the eye), and the horse reared, throwing him to the stones. He groaned, crying out.

"My eyes! Damn you, Talbot!" Sir John stepped off of the steps, gun in hand, smiling slightly. Gwen was a little ways behind him, looking scared.

"Sorry Colonel," Sir John said cheerfully, walking forward. "I meant to shoot _you_." The men attacking Lawrence broke away quickly, and Harry glowered at them, face bloody from a cut on his head and right eye already swelling shut. Sir John continued talking.

"Sadly," he drawled, "I'm not the marksman I used to be. I must be getting old," he smiled slightly as he said it, and everyone knew he was lying, that he'd missed on purpose. He stood now beside Lawrence and Harry, eyes locked on the group. The priest spoke up,

"He's cursed. God has forsaken him." Harry spat a mouthful of blood at the priests' feet, sneering.

"Moron," he snapped. "God forsakes no one unless they forsake themselves. He'd let Satan himself back into Heaven if the Devil was truly repentant and asked forgiveness. You are nothing but a half-wit priest who would demand a mans head out of fear with no proof of said mans sin nor guilt. My uncle was a victim of an attack, which he got by protecting innocent women and children, and you would condemn him for surviving!" He spat another mouthful of blood. "That is the kind of man God forsakes, priest. Not my uncle, but the man who would damn him for selflessness in the face of almost certain death. Go to Hell!" Sir John placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and the teen took a deep breath, stepping back silently.

"You know you're trespassing on my land," Sir John drawled, blue eyes flashing dangerously. "I could shoot you on the spot right now. My Sikh manservant, he's on the roof," he added; the men glanced worriedly at the roof, unable to see Singh. "And he happens to be a crack shot with a repeating rifle. And he _will_ kill you." He looked the priest right in the eye as he said it, then glanced at the other men. "He'll kill the next eight of you before he has to reload, so please take yourself off my land." Montford stumbled by, helped by one of the four thugs, a handkerchief pressed to his face. "And if I see any of you trespassing this way again," Sir John said, tightening his hands meaningfully on his gun. "I wont be so civil, if you take my meaning." He smiled at them, baring his teeth. "Good day to you, Colonel," he said as the men started turning their horses to leave. He turned and glanced at Lawrence.

"Lawrence," he said calmly; the man nodded and followed him toward the house. "Harry," Sir John added; Harry hobbled after them obediently, grimacing and wiping blood from his chin.

"You're bleeding," Gwen told Lawrence, gesturing to his lip as Sir John passed; the man touched his split lip, and glanced over his shoulder at the leaving men. Harry saw that flash in his eyes again, but it disappeared as he turned back to Gwen. They followed Sir John inside, and Harry sat himself down on a bench tiredly, wincing and watching his grandfather put away his rifle and bullets.

"How could they possibly think he's a threat to them?" Gwen asked the old man; he grunted slightly.

"Well he's a stranger here in Blackmoor, Miss Conliffe," he said without looking up; Lawrence leaned on the wall, wiping his bloody lip idly. "And that makes him very dangerous." Lawrence looked over at Harry, then at his father.

"Thank you," he said simply, honestly; Sir John hmm'd.

"Yes. You can also thank Singh," the old man drawled, then looked up, mischief dancing in his blue eyes and a smug little smile on his face. "When he returns from the village." He started past his son, touching Harry's shoulder and gesturing to the stairs, before meeting his sons' eyes. "You're not the only one in the family who can act." Harry stood and hobbled after the old man as he moved toward the stairs.

Sir John helped him up the first flight, then paused and watched as Gwen led Lawrence away to take care of his lip. Harry watched as well, and sighed softly. When Sir John continued up the stairs, Harry quickly hobbled after him. They stopped in the parlor, and Sir John picked up a couple handkerchiefs and a bottle of whiskey. Harry grimaced at the sight of it, but didn't move as his grandfather doused the corner of one of the white cloths with the drink, and began to wipe blood from the sixteen-year-olds face. Harry hissed and gasped, but didn't move, grimacing viciously.

"Lawrence is getting tangled," Sir John muttered, scowling slightly. Harry blinked watering eyes. "Miss Conliffe is getting closer to him every day, and he is becoming more infatuated." Harry winced as some of the alcohol dripped into his swollen eye, making it burn and ache.

"That's what happens," Harry gasped, "When the only one who tends his wounds is a beautiful young woman who made him resent his brother for what he had." Sir John scowled slightly, tossing the bloody 'kerchief into the fire and picking up a clean one for Harry's bleeding and raw knuckles.

"You were very brave, Harry," the old man told him. "And very foolish." Harry smiled, wincing and tonguing his split and puffy lip.

"You do stuff like that for those you love," he said simply and his grandfather wrapped clean, white cloth around his knuckles on each hand, grunting in reply. "Grandpa, can I ask you a personal question?" Harry started hesitantly; Sir John looked at him.

"Of course you can, Harry." He said, pouring himself a small glass of whiskey. Harry took a deep breath.

"When were you bitten?" He blurted; Sir John froze, and slowly set the drink down on the table.

"How long have you known?" he asked quietly; Harry stared down at his bandaged hands, biting his lip.

"A few days," he said softly. "Things just started to add up in my mind, when I was worrying about Uncle Lawrence." He swallowed and risked a glance up at his grandfather, who wasn't looking at him. "The Gypsies wanted to let him die, or kill him themselves. They said there was no cure for the beast. Then I remembered that Uncle Ben and two villagers died on a full moon, and the attack happened on the full moon. And," he hesitated for a few seconds. "And that Grandma died of self-mutilation on the full moon." He let out a shaky breath and stared at his hands.

"I see," Sir John murmured; Harry closed his eyes, embarrassingly close to tears.

"I don't care, you know," he whispered hoarsely. "What you've done, what you will do. What Uncle Lawrence will do. It doesn't matter." He lifted his green eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks, and met his grandfathers' silent blue eyes. "You're my family," Harry whispered. "I love you both more then anything else in the world. No matter what you do, who you kill," his green eyes sincere he looked up at his grandfather. "You're family. Family sticks together. Dursley's don't count." He said, wiping his cheeks irritably. "They were never really family. You are. I don't want to loose either of you," he whispered, clenching his hands into fists. Sir John stared at him silently for a few moments, then sighed.

"Twenty-five years," he finally said, picking his untouched drink back up and carefully sitting down next to the teen, wiping away his tears and hugging him close with one arm, tossing back half of the amber liquid in his glass, staring into it silently. "I was hunting, and the local villagers pointed me toward a cave, and the strange creature that lived there." He drank down the last of his drink, then sighed, hand rubbing the back of Harry's neck absently as the teen stared up at him.

"After climbing and searching for days, I found it. I found the cave," he smiled slightly, looking down at Harry. "And the… strange creature that lived in it. It was a little boy. A little wild, feral boy. Terribly strong, terribly strong," His eyes were distant as he remembered.

"He suddenly attacked, and bit me," he told Harry, pulling up a sleeve to show the two marks, the indentions of a full set of teeth, upper and lower jaws. Harry touched them hesitantly, then looked up at his grandfather. "Well, I returned to my hunting companions, thinking I'd been the butt of a joke." He smiled as he said it, but that smile slowly faded. "I soon discovered otherwise," he murmured; Harry took his free hand silently.

"Grandma," he said softly; Sir John nodded slowly, eyes glazed with sadness.

"I've locked myself in a crypt under her tomb every full moon for the last twenty-five years," he said with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. "Singh, my faithful servant, locks me in, so I can't hurt anybody else. Until that night two months ago." He looked down at Harry, touching his cheek.

"When Ben brought her home, I admit I became infatuated myself, much like Lawrence has," he said, lips twitching. "She reminds me so much of my wife, all hot and powerful, like the full moon on a clear night." He shivered, then sighed wistfully. "She would have taken Ben away from me, both of them disappearing into the night, never to seen from again. I was resigned to it, but," he paused; Harry finished.

"The beast wasn't," he said softly; Sir John smiled slightly.

"No, I daresay he was not. Ben came to me that afternoon, and told me he was quite resolute in his plans to leave the Hall. That he wanted to get as far away from me as possible, and take Gwen from me as well. I got drunk, and violent. I lashed out at Singh when he was trying to restrain me." He chuckled, and made a punching motion with his free hand. "Pow! Knocked him out cold, I did! Poor, poor Singh." He shook his head; then sighed. "Safe to say that I was unable to lock myself in the crypt as a result. I found Bens body in a ditch near the house nearly a month later," he said quietly. "He'd been ripped to pieces." Harry silently leaned against his grandfather, comforting him.

"I learned that it was a mistake to lock the beast up, Harry," he said, looking down at his nephew, something flashing in his eyes, making them gleam. "It only makes the bloodlust harder to focus. Makes the beast more violent. I'll not force my son to do that, Harry, to live through that. That night, when I killed Ben, was nothing like the night last month. I was insane with rage, and couldn't remember what I had done. Last month, though, I embraced the beast, and didn't try to chain him, and I remembered almost all of it. I remember the thrill of the hunt, the place where I was hunting, ways I tricked my prey into the position I wanted them. I remember flashes, faces. I remember you, now that I think about it," he said, looking down at Harry thoughtfully. "But you're my pup, as much as Lawrence is now. I wouldn't hurt you unless you stepped out of your place. I know that." Harry stared up at him silently.

"I love you, Grandpa," he said suddenly; Sir John stared down at him, then smiled softly, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Aye," he replied. "I love you too, lad." They remained like that, sitting side by side, for an hour or so, and in companionable silence.

**A/N:** Ta-Da! TWISTINESS! The secret is OUT! This was the main Spoiler for those who haven't seen the movie. Srry, but HA! XP R&R


	7. Full Moon Madness

**A/N: **Okay, last chapter for a while. I hit a blank, temporarily, on this one when my Interferes series jumpstarted back to life, so this one will end, for a little while, with this chapter. Enjoy it!

R&R

**7**

**Full Moon Madness**

The next day, Harry watched both his grandfather and his uncle carefully. Gwen was gone, having been sent away last night by Lawrence, who feared for her safety. Sir John seemed to be in a more playful mood then he usually was, and Lawrence acted a little oddly around his father, wary and slightly subservient. Sir John seemed rather pleased with that.

"It means that when our beasts meet," he told Harry, "I'll be less likely to kill him." Harry decided that that was a good thing as well. He really didn't want his relatives to kill each other. It would really, really suck. Harry sighed, looking out the window. A knock on the door had him looking up. Sir John stood in the doorway, smiling slightly.

"Time for me to go," he said calmly; Harry looked at him worriedly.

"They'll blame Lawrence, you know," he said softly; Sir John silently nodded.

"I believe they wont kill him," he replied; Harry pursed his lips, then nodded.

"They'll call him insane, experiment on him, and do something really stupid that will probably lead to a lot of dead bodies," he said idly; Sir John let out a bark-like laugh, grinning, eyes gleaming inhumanly.

"He _is_ my son, you know," he all but purred; Harry smiled at him.

"Have fun, Grandpa," he said simply; the old man nodded and left. Harry watched from his window as his grandfather walked toward the family tombs, and then as Lawrence followed him. Harry sighed and slipped downstairs. He watched Singh pull a book close. Samson whined and trotted over to him, licking his hand.

"Hey boy," he said gently; the Sikh man looked over at him, startled.

"You should be sleeping, Harry," he said; Harry smiled at him.

"So should you," he replied; Singh snorted.

"Your uncle told me the same thing just yesterday night," he said, closing the book. Harry moved into the room and sat, Samson setting his large head on the boys lap, earning a scratch behind his ears.

"How come you're still here after all these years, Singh?" Harry asked curiously. "Even though Grandpa is what he is?" Singh froze, staring at him; Harry waved his hand idly. "He knows I know, don't worry. He's family, and I love him very much." The Sikh man stared at him, then looked down at his hands. He pulled up a sleeve and showed Harry a small pair of white mounds, scars.

"Years ago," he said calmly. "I was bitten by a snake; it had gone gangrene. Sir John carried me on his back, seventeen miles through the bush. I was just a paid gun carrier. He could have left me under the mangrove tree's, for the lions to find. But he didn't." He pulled his sleeve back down. Harry stared down at Samson's head silently. "He is a good man, Harry," he said quietly. "But he has been, and always will be, a hunter of the most spectacular kind. He hunted animals as a man," he told the boy calmly; Harry smiled slightly.

"And hunts men as an animal." An eerie howl ripped through the air, and Singh quickly went to the door, locking it tightly. Samson growled softly; Harry patted his head and stood.

"I am going to bed, Singh," he said quietly. "Good night and God bless." The Sikh watched the youngest Talbot leave silently, then smiled slightly.

"He is going to make a fine heir to Sir Johns family," he murmured, then, sighing, once more opened his book and began to read.

When Harry woke in the morning, he got up, got dressed, and ran outside, pulling on his jacket. His grandfather was up on the closest hill, where a tree stood. As he watched, his uncle stumbled out of the hole in the tree, looked at himself, and stared at his father in horror. Harry looked over as dogs and men with guns and horses rode onto the field between the house and the hill. Looking back up, he watched his uncle fall to his knees and hide his face in his fathers' clothes, sobbing. Running up the hill, he ignored Inspector Abeline when he rode up behind him. Reaching his relatives, he ignored the blood that covered his uncle, and instead fell to his knees and threw his arms around the sobbing man. Sir John rested his hands on his sons shoulders, head bowed and blue eyes calm and a little sad.

"Sir John!" Inspector Abeline shouted, pulling up sharply nearby as his eyes landed on the sobbing, blood-soaked man. Sir John pulled his son to his feet, as well as his grandson. Together, he and Harry gently guided the stumbling, bloody man down the hill, where he got on his knees and surrendered, tears continuing down his cheeks. Harry curled into his grandfathers' side, tears sliding down his own cheeks as they knocked his uncle out and took him away. Sir John watched in stark silence, eyes calm and watchful. Turning, he pulled Harry, and the boy followed him in a daze as he went to the house, head ducked meekly and pressed to his grandfathers' chest.

"He'll be fine," Sir John told Harry. "He's strong." Harry nodded silently, sniffling.

"Who'd he kill?" he asked softly; Sir John tightened his hand on the boys shoulder.

"Strickland, Montford, the doctor, and a few other lads who'd gotten together in the moor in an attempt to capture him." Harry looked up at him, his right eye still black and swollen; his lip still puffy, and his forehead still scratched.

"So no one of consequence," he said; Sir John chuckled and kissed his head gently.

"No, lad," he said, amused. "No one of any consequence." Harry smiled up at him, green eyes sparkling with mischief. "How about another shooting lesson, hmm?" Harry nodded and followed his grandfather to the main hall, picking a rifle and its' box of bullets, handing the gun to Harry. Someone knocked firmly on the door, and Harry had the gun up and pointed before he even realized it. His grandfather patted his shoulder, shushed Samson as the dog barked, and opened the door.

Micah stood there, teeth bared in a smile. Harry lowered the gun instantly, smiling. He set the gun down and darted forward, wrapping his arms around the old woman's shoulders, hugging firmly and being hugged just as firmly in return. Micah laughed and kissed Harry's cheek. Sir John watched, curious, Samson at his side and Singh pausing on the stairs.

"How have ye been, my young friend?" the old Gypsy asked; Harry smiled at her. "Getting into trouble I see. Did ye give as good as ye got?" Harry laughed and nodded happily. "I hear yer wolfy-uncle got caught," she touched his cheek. "I tell ye now, ye'll see him two moons from now." Harry felt his shoulders relax and sighed, relieved.

"Thank you, Micah. Now, how are Natasha, Maria and the little boy?" Micah grinned at him.

"All fine and healthy, brat, no worries. And the boy's name is Rence. Natasha named him after your uncle, for saving her life that night." Harry smiled proudly, then turned to his grandfather.

"Micah, this is my grandfather, Sir John," he introduced; she gave the old man a stern once-over, then grinned.

"Hello to you, wolfy," she said; then looked serious. "I must be thanking ye, though, for taking my young friend out of the hands of dem relatives he was with. His jewel-eyes are much better now, polished and glowy." Sir John gave her a thin smile, eyes wary.

"It was a pleasure, madam," he said calmly. "Tell me, though, what is the purpose of this visit?" Micah frowned and turned her large, brown eyes on Harry.

"Yer in danger, young friend," she told him softly. "Da Reverend Fisk is attempting to spread tales of how ye be a devil-worshiper. Most of da town is thinking he's gone 'round the bend, but there is some who will listen to him. There be whispers of a witch-burning, my friend." Her brown eyes were worried; Harry's face went blank, then his eyes narrowed.

"Micah," he said quietly. "I want you to take a room for the evening. Any room is fine, I'm sure Singh will be more then happy to escort you if you wish. Grandpa," he said, turning to Sir John. "Those shooting lessons will have to wait. I'll return before sunset, if not, look for me in town." He pulled on his jacket from its place by the door, tugging it on firmly and dragging a hand through his hair.

"What are you going to do?" Sir John asked, face blank and hard. Harry looked up at him, and a sort of wild coldness raged in his eyes.

"I'm going to make that idiot priest wish he'd never said a word against the Talbot family," he said simply; Sir John's lips twitched.

"That's my grandson," he murmured, ruffling his hair. Harry nodded and left, stalking towards the stable. Seconds later he came flying out on the back of a black stallion that reared in the courtyard, and made Lawrence's horse look like a placid gelding. Then he was off, galloping at high-speed for town.

Half an hour later, he reached town, and brought the stallion to a rearing stop at the tavern. Green eyes spitting fire, he stalked in, looking slowly about. Everything got quiet fast.

"I am looking," Harry said slowly, "for the good Reverend. I believe," he said softly, eyes dragging around the tavern. "That he has some allegations to bring against me. Unless he is afraid to say them to my face, that is?" The priest stood from his spot, pale but proud, glaring at Harry. "Ah, Fisk, there you are. Do you have something you want to tell me?" he asked quietly, walking slowly forward. "You've been telling everyone else, apparently," he drawled, stopping directly across from him. "And you've been yearning to tell me since I called you a coward the day or so before. After all, only a coward would hide behind the Father in order to get his personal vendettas out into public with support."

"You are a devil-worshiper!" The priest hissed, pulling out a cross. Harry stared at it silently, then smiled bitterly.

"No, thank you," he said, reaching up and unbuttoning his shirt, he pulled it apart, exposing his scarred chest, and the burned mark of a medium sized cross. "My relatives tried that on me. They beat me, held me down, and branded me with the holy cross out of jealousy and hate. I was three, Fisk. And I still pray every day that God can forgive them for their stupidity." He stared into the priest's eyes as he stripped off his shirt and silently spread his arms, turning in a slow circle. "My Aunt Petunia and her husband, Vernon, and their son Dudley are all good Catholic's, Fisk. Yet they did all of this and worst to a child of their own blood. You'd have me burnt at the stake, and we're not even related." He stared at the man silently for a moment.

"Have I not suffered enough for nonexistent sins, Father? Have I not been cleansed of imaginary demons enough for you?" He silently stared around the tavern. "Is it not bad enough," he said quietly, "that I must now live with the fact that my uncle is insane? That my grandfather is not likely to live for too many years more? That the blood of innocents can be laid at my family's feet? Is it not enough?" He shouted, glaring around the room. Staring at them all, he silently bowed his head and pulled his shirt back on, slowly buttoning it. When he was done, he stared around the room one last time, then at the priest. "You are afraid," he said quietly, "and fear makes you act irrationally, I understand. I know what it's like, to be afraid and uncertain of what will happen next. That doesn't give you the right to choose who is to die because of your fear." He silently walked forward and pulled out a handful of coins. He set them on the counter quietly. "I apologize for the disturbance," he told the woman behind the bar, tipping an imaginary hat. "Good day, madam, sirs," he nodded at the tavern goers. "Reverend," he said, nodding, eyes devoid of everything but serene calmness that only the dead had.

Silent as the grave, Harry left, closing the door behind him gently. Quietly, he walked to the huge stallion, and patted his neck, before pulling himself into the saddle and setting off for the woods. He needed to be alone for a while. Back in the tavern, Reverend Fisk sank slowly into a chair, pale, shocked, and trembling. Everything remained silent and muted in the tavern for a while, people brooding or thinking guiltily of what they'd said or done over the past two months, about or to the boy and his family.

Harry returned home hours later, drained and tired. He walked the horse to the stables silently. He spent an hour brushing and petting the stallion, murmuring to him, before he went inside. Sir John was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, and Harry walked straight to him, and was enveloped in his arms. He sighed as his grandfather kissed his head.

"Easy, my pup," he murmured into Harry's hair. They were about to go upstairs when Samson barked. Minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Micah and Singh appeared on the stairs, side-by-side, as Sir John grabbed a gun. Blank faced and calm, Harry slowly opened the door, hand on Samson's collar to keep him back. Standing there, looking pale and weary, was Reverend Fisk. When he saw Harry and Sir John behind him, he took off his hat, exposing his bald head.

"I wished to apologize, Young Master Talbot," he said quietly, hat in hand. "To you and your grandfather, for the way I treated both you and your grandfather, as well as the way I handled the situation with your uncle." He swallowed. "It was most, ungodly of me. I beg your forgiveness," he said, bowing his head, ashamed. Harry stared at him, then sighed, holding out his hand.

"Forgiveness given," he said quietly. "Is forgiveness asked. God forgives all, Reverend Fisk. We mere mortals should try to remember that." The Reverend silently took the young mans hand and gripped it, nodding firmly.

"I hope that I might see you this Sunday in church, Young Master Talbot," he said quietly; Harry nodded.

"You shall. God bless, Reverend," he said quietly, releasing the Reverends hand. Fisk nodded, put on his hat, and nodded again, to Sir John this time, before looking at Harry again.

"God bless, Young Master Talbot." He turned and walked over to his horse, pulling himself up, and turning it away, trotting back toward town. Harry quietly shut the door and locked it, turning to smirk at his grandfather.

"Old dogs _can_ learn new tricks," he said smugly; Sir John shook his head, chuckling.

"I bow to your marksmanship, my grandson," he drawled, bowing with the tip of an imaginary hat. Harry grinned and bowed back.

"I learned from an excellent hunter, my grandfather," he replied; Sir John chuckled, threw an arm around his shoulder, and hugged him, kissing his temple.

"Your mother would be proud," he murmured, and Harry smiled up at him, eyes warm.

"I hope so, Grandpa," he whispered, hugging the old man around the waist. "I really hope so."

**A/N:** Aw, Harry's a manipulator! Sweet… R&R!


End file.
